Not Your Jackpot
by TheGreaterGatsby
Summary: He's a listless drunk, he is, like an indecisive dog surrounded by a hundred bones and that mutt can smell every scrap of meat leftover on them. Which one would he taste next? Which would he drag a sloppy tongue over this evening? The kid, probably. (Told in the semi-POV of Mr. Pink. Implied slash)


"Pink, you slippery tailed bastard. You think I didn't see that?"

Mr. Pink cannot keep his eyes from mimicking a frightened cat, wide as can be. He's not well with suppressing those peepers when that tone is directed at him and his nervous twitches show it. It is an unprofessional habit that has almost gotten him knee deep in blue boys, but even they are not as intimidating as Mr. White on a night like this. Drunks are always unpredictable. Still, he could blame it on the rank cigar smoke thickening up his air.

"Does it even really matter?" He had handed the waitress an arcade coin to shut them up. She was not exactly thrilled.

"It does. Now you promised that you were going to tip. Why the hell wouldn't you? You'll be a rich man by tomorrow!"

Had Pink not addressed this issue already?

White is exclaiming and throwing his arms forward in broad gestures, almost hitting the kid beside him. Mr. Pink could feel sorry for him, except that he is pretty sure the kid's a cocksucker for White. It likely would not be the first thing of White's to smack him in his face.

Mr. Pink's eyes narrow in irritation and he leans forward to answer with a hissing growl, "Just announce it to the fucking world why don't you? Stop being so goddamn loud!" Then he eases back and lifts up his own drink only to swirl the liquid and put it down again. "And I never promised anything. You've got the wrong guy. Getting this money isn't going to change my stance. I'm conserving it."

'Might even invest,' he wants to follow up, but stops himself. That's unnecessary information for this group.

"There's really no point in bringing this up again, Mr. White."

Before he's even half done with his reply, White is talking to Mr. Blonde. He's a listless drunk, he is, like an indecisive dog surrounded by a hundred bones and that mutt can smell every scrap of meat leftover on them. Which one would he taste next? Which would he drag a sloppy tongue over this evening?

The kid, probably.

Mr. Pink has gotten a knack for these types of deductions lately. He is no stickler and can take a joke, but all this drunk rambling does not have what it takes to hold his ear so he would rather test his intuition. He looks for the signs that show up in every "hidden queer." Details add up. The pretend detective decides to play a game, beginning with the small hints then getting to the bigger evidence. It is like reading a good mystery novel with a satisfying climax. Pink has not had one of those in a while.

Orange's hands are clenching onto the seat edge with every lurching movement of the group. They are all interconnected by the cramped booth; Pink by Brown, Brown by Blue, Blue by Blonde, Blonde by Orange, Orange by White. They are a huffing, perspiring clump of suits. A fucking rainbow. Pink cannot exactly see Mr. Orange's hands because of the table, but he can tell by his narrow plywood arms. It is no clear evidence though, he might just have had one too many and is about to vomit on the table (a consideration that brings much horror to the observer).

Though there is also the way he keeps looking at White. White is droning on and on to Blonde, obviously paying the kid no mind even though his arm is clamped around his shoulder, and still the kid keeps eyeballing him. He peers through those puckered lashes and flicks his pupils down towards his lap all in the same instance. Pink classifies it as school girl mentality, which is a bit harsh, but it is not like Pink is writing this exercise down or anything.

Soon Mr. Pink realizes that so far, his evidence is one sided. Who is to say this affection is not unrequited? It looks so for now, yet Pink has seen the boiling point of what borderlines decency in public. One evening in the car, White whispered in the kid's ear and whatever that old asshole was saying, it has the kid's hand trembling around his seat belt.

So fucking unprofessional.

He's positive that the kid is now going red, a madder red to contrast the drunk glow, just from being under White's gaze again. Pink's jaw clenches to bite back a humorless laugh, one of a sadist's victory. Look at him. Turning his head like a modest wife to whine to Blonde about something or another. How does Pink stay so much smarter than these fucks? He can read them like a fucking audio book. It's that easy. He bets he can even foresee this whole operation through. No way could one be a rat with how good he can sniff out their shit.

Now they are moving up in a fashion similar to a dismissed parish mass. The mixed conversations have cooled and everyone is just ready to step out into the LA night. They tug at their loose collars with futility and Pink takes the opportunity to see if he can catch one more hint of some homosexuality between his subjects. There is some going on all right, but not to Pink's notion. Instead, White walks ahead in a follow up conversation with Mr. Blue. Orange lingers with Blonde, whose pinky finger is latched into the ass pocket of the kid's pants.

Pink is the only one who does not vote up for another round downtown. Now he is just nervous.


End file.
